Dumb Dora said, "Goodbye, Charles, you _____."

Dumb Dora said, "Goodbye, Charles, you _____."

May 29

It’s safe to say that the death of Charles Nelson Reilly at the age of 76 affects me more than most thirtysomethings. Not because I was his illegitimate love child with Brett Somers, but because I was a genuine, unabashed fan–both for his supreme kitsch value in the pantheon of pop culture, and for his exceptional wit and style.

This piece I wrote for a zine several years ago pretty much says it all. It has absolutely nothing to do with geeky pursuits whatsoever, unless you find a straight white male’s love for CNR to be somehow “geeky.” It probably is.

During the summer of 1989, two things fascinated me. One was QVC. The other was Match Game.

Every morning at eleven, I’d sit myself down in front of the television to watch Ross Shaffer shepherd an aging Charles Nelson Reilly and five other celebs through a half-hour of banter, schtick and bits–with the occasional game show competition thrown in for good measure. And as an impressionable pre-teen, I thought it was just about the most entertaining thing I’d ever seen.

Of course, I’d always been a game show fan–among my earliest words were “A brand new car!”–but this was something different. This was more than just the vicarious thrill of watching someone pick up fabulous prizes as a well-endowed “model” preened. No, this was like gaining entrance into some secret society.

For a half-hour every day, I was admitted into the elite club known as “Celebrity.” I could watch six “stars” casually toss around one-liners and needle each other as though they were sipping martinis at the Copa. I didn’t feel like I was at home on my couch with a bowl of cereal and the constant distraction of my budding crush on Jenny Szabo. I felt like I was on that panel of stars, whipping out goofy answers with the best of them. It was then that I began to understand what Paris Hilton already understands so well–what it’s like to be appreciated not because you are talented, but simply because you are famous.

It wasn’t until just recently that I discovered the roots of this Match Game remake in the endless reruns of the classic seventies Match Game on Game Show Network. I have a soft spot in my heart for my Match Game, but these seminal episodes in trash culture history are clearly superior to their late-eighties counterpart.

For the uninitated, a brief tutorial. On Match Game, two contestants (usually one middle- aged fella and a cute housewife or college student) must give their choices to complete sentences, for example, “Freida said, ‘I hate being married to an umpire. Every night when I get into bed, he screams, BLANK.'” If your suggestion to fill that blank (“Yer out!”) matches one of the answers chosen by one of the six celebrities, you get a point. The person with the most points after three rounds goes on to the Big Money Match, where they can spin the Star Wheel and have one shot to win as much as $20,000.

On the surface, just another game show. But oh so much more. What makes Match Game so wonderful, so awful, and so wonderfully awful?

Most of the credit has to go to the “panel of stars,” the six celebrities who in each episode attempt to match their answers with the contestants. Though there was a constant rotation of semi-regulars and one-time visitors to the Match Game panel, the anchor of the show revolves around three panelists–Richard Dawson, Brett Sommers and Charles Nelson Reilly.

Dawson would move over to the Match Game “spin-off” Family Feud in the late seventies, a show that would eventually surpass Match Game in popularity. But he fine-tuned his swingin’ horny guy persona on Match Game. It simply isn’t a true Match Game episode unless Richard has made some suggestive comment to a contestant, a fellow panelist, or even host Gene Rayburn. The man was a walking bundle of fuck.

Brett and Charles (or Chuck, as he is often known on the show) took a more gentle approach to the game. Occupying the center and stage left spots on the upper tier for most episodes, they’re the Burns and Allen of the Match Game stage. In fact, it’s often hard to tell which one’s Burns and which one’s Allen as they riff their way through each half-hour in a constant effort to crack each other up. Of the two, Brett was typically the more gentle and involved player, always ready with a quip for a contestant–in one episode of Match Game PM, the bawdier evening counterpart to the daytime edition, she even tries to set up a single male contestant with occasional panelist Marcia Wallace, former supporting player on The Bob Newhart Show and the voice of Mrs. Crabapple on The Simpsons.

In contrast, Charles lives up to his raging queen persona by being hilariously catty, mocking and even flirtatious. In one episode, when former Laugh-In co-host Dick Martin mentions that he’s “going to go with Big Chuck” and give the same answer as him, Charles replies, “Most men do, Dick.” An unsung master of comic timing, he’ll sit quietly on that upper tier for long stretches of the show, silently observing the action, then let loose with a perfectly- timed joke that brings the house down. Charles can also be
spotted occasionally jotting down private jokes on the Match Game cards for Brett’s enjoyment, and you’ll frequently hear her nicotine-drenched laugh on the soundtrack over jokes that have been forever lost to the mists of time.

Many of the semi-regular panelists–Avery Schreiber, Marcia Wallace, Betty White–bring their own ingredients to the chemical mix. But it’s really Richard Dawson, Brett Sommers and Charles Nelson Reilly around which the show’s dynamic was built. You also can’t deny the contributions of Gene Rayburn, who let loose with his own steady stream of passable one-liners, and presided over the happenings as the ideal mix of bemused ringleader and straight man.

Looking at that roster of names, you might be hard-pressed to decipher what most of the panelists were even famous for, other than appearing on Match Game. Reilly had a supporting role on The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, Dawson spent several seasons on Hogan’s Heroes, and Sommers is best known as the perenially separated wife of Odd Couple star Jack Klugman.

And yet, they sit regularly on a “panel of stars.” Like the aforementioned Ms. Hilton, these are people who are famous for being famous– professional celebrities, one and all. Personalities and nothing more. In that sense, it’s gloriously terrible television, because it’s the worst thing entertainment can be: self-indulgent. Why should we care to watch six nobodies who think they are somebodies get soused as they try not to screw our fellow lumpenproletariats out of game show swag?

I do care, and it pains me to realize why. I think I genuinely like these people. In its most relaxed moments, there’s an intimacy to Match Game where I really do feel like I’m in on some private joke shared by the panelists. It might be the first–or only?–game show in which I feel like I’m encouraged to identify with the celebrities and not with the contestants. Any fool can travel from Biloxi for a shot at twenty grand, but I don’t need that. I want to kibitz with Charles and Brett, get leeringly winked at by Richard
Dawson and cut in front of Marcia Wallace in line at the free craft services buffet.

On some level, I understand what Match Game really is–six celebs and Gene Rayburn barely involved in the game and trying to entertain each other, while a steady stream of average folk trot across the stage hoping to win what is commonly known in the game show biz as “the big money.” And yet, I can’t help feeling that something died with the classic Match Game of the seventies. Our understanding of that mysterious beast known as “celebrity” has transformed. These days, our tolerance has diminished. Were Paris Hilton suddenly to appear each night on our television drunk and schticking it up, we’d simply change the channel. We prefer a show like Deal or No Deal, where we can watch regular Joes and Josephines compete against themselves for a huge payday. Heck, we can’t even tolerate the Oscars anymore–everyone’s always bitching about how long the show is.

In spite of the shifting tides of popular attitude, I often think about someday attempting to mount another Match Game revival. I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t fly, though, so I’ll stick with my reruns of classic Match Game and continue watching that panel of third-rate stars go through the motions–not because I can identify with them at all, but because I can’t.

I don’t really want to be them. I don’t want to win their money. I just want to be their friend.